


Keep Your Heart Strong

by rivlee



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Prompt Fill, Spartacus Reverse Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nasir’s regiment has found itself burdened with a set of foulmouthed prisoners. Or the one where Nasir is a Roman soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Heart Strong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steorie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steorie/gifts).



> Based off of Steorie’s art prompts for the Spartacus Reverse Big Bang seen [here](http://steorie.tumblr.com/post/54316015822/please-click-onto-the-pic-for-full-view) and [here](http://steorie.tumblr.com/post/54316142087/please-click-onto-the-pic-for-full-view). Title from Ben Howard’s _Keep Your Head Up, Keep Your Heart Strong_. Thanks to Jas and Stephi for the German help. Special thanks to Amanda/spartacusalltheway for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are completely my own. 
> 
> Also while some events below are inspired by history, they are not fact and shouldn't be taken as such. While Pompey did fight Sertorius in Hispania, this was not how it happened.

Nasir had made it a habit to ride out far past the borders of his regiment’s camp, never able to shake the duties of a scout even if it was a role delegated now to men beneath him. It was difficult not to be taken in by the hills full of grain and the taste of salt in the air that surrounded him. These lands, even now in war, were home to many soldiers. _Home_ , a word that always brought confusion to him. Home had never been a fixed point or place for Nasir, son of Anshar. He had spent his whole life following the Roman legions, joining the forces when he came of age. He’d found himself suited to such a life, ever restless during the harvest times when the soldiers left their camps for farms and cities. He spared little thought for the future and anything beyond his beloved regiment.

Nasir turned from his thoughts and patted the mane of his horse as he approached the site of his current camp. The distant sound of his fellow soldiers was soothing to Nasir as he attempted to relax after another long day of exhaustive training. A group of new volunteers, or rather forced recruits, had wound up under his watch; barely old enough to be called men and some never having seen a horse outside of artwork. How he was supposed to form a cavalry out of so-called men who feared the very beasts they were to ride, he did not know. The horses had more sense than to accept a skittish rider in battle; they were seasoned, well-trained campaign veterans. Nasir would not see their deaths brought about by fools too eager to prove they that could stand equal with their elders.

This attitude wasn’t uncommon to Nasir. Many men, Roman citizens especially, resented being taught by a beardless boy of Syria. Nasir learned long ago to let his skills speak for themselves. Until they could hit a target, riding at a fast pace, both with bow and spear, they would not best him where it mattered. He never expected respect to be freely given, it was always earned, yet each new group tested his ever-thinning patience.

Nasir's long familiarity with the Roman military made him trusted amongst the generals and suspect amongst the recruits. His own father had held this position first, that of cavalry and archery trainer—two skills the Romans severely lacked. They had a successful one once, centuries ago, but time had squandered any talent left and so Rome, like it often did, turned to its neighbors.

After the civil war, Rome turned back to outfitting its military with the best. They had recruited a whole regiment of contracted volunteers from outside Rome; infantrymen from Numidia, cavalry from Thrace, and archers from the borders far past Syria. The combination of the two skills, riding and shooting, was something so valuable that Nasir’s father, Anshar, had been hired on a sixteen-year contract after the first war with Mithridates IV. Nasir, along with his mother, and brother, had lived in the legion’s followers’ camp until it was his own turn to assume position.

When an upstart of a Roman boy had decided to use his wit and strategic skills to gain prominence and power, Nasir had suddenly found himself with a chance to advance his own place. His mother and brother would continue to follow his father and the forces traveling to Pontus to face Mithridates again. His family was quite excited to return to their home, but Nasir had been a young child when they left for a life of war and travel. He found no urge within himself to return to a place he could not recall. It was an easy decision to make when Pompey had offered him a position. 

Pompey had decided to take a lesson from some of his elders and create his own regiment of men like Nasir; a regiment that couldn’t even officially exist since it was manned by non-citizens. It was better than being a farmer, or even worse a slave, though Nasir’s life was still contracted to Rome and her whims. They were a whole force made of men like Pompey and the best chance to put down Sertorius. They were all young, driven, and cared little for the political traditions of Rome. What cause did they have for Roman propriety when they weren’t even her citizens? They were paid outside of official means, all hired as consultants for what they could offer to Rome’s expansion. 

Nasir carefully scratched between the ears of his proud mare, Nox, and rode past the watchtowers into to the camp. He had spied a whole group of wagons earlier, coming from the north and guarded by Gauls. He wondered what they’d brought to the regiment this time. 

Nasir entered the camp only to be greeted by the loud complaints of prisoners. They screamed their words in a harsh language that made the hair stand on the back of his neck. He may not have understood the true meanings, but the impression of war cries and curses were obvious no matter the tongue. 

“We’re in Hispania,” Nasir said as he handed Nox off to one of the recruits in the stable yard. “What did we do to be punished with a group of barbarians?”

“The Gauls captured them,” Dagan said. He was a mountain of a man, a Syrian like Nasir though his family came from the southern lands. He was their lead archer, in spite of his brawn, and one of the few Nasir trusted with his life. 

Pietros, a slim man of Egypt who towered over Nasir, turned from the stew he was making. “Since when does Rome watch Gaul’s prisoners?”

“Since that one speaks the Romans’ tongue,” Dagan said. He pointed to a man shackled to one of the wooden posts, yelling at any who crossed his path. “Sextus wants to see how much a slave trader will take for him, but word has come from Pompey to hold him as leverage against the Gauls. If we are to mind their prisoners, he wants payment of some kind.”

“What worth would such a barbarian have?” Nasir asked. He carefully watched the man through hooded eyes. He’d been beaten, that much was obvious, and he now sat with hands tied behind his back and chained to the post. The dried blood was clear on his face, and welts swelled around his mouth. He still taunted each soldier who dared linger for too long.

“The lands east of the Rhine could be a territorial grab for an enterprising man,” Barca said. 

Nasir turned to the Carthigian with a smile. Only Dagan stood as tall as him in the camp. He was a master with the spear, taught by Auctus, a Greek who had once been a gladiator. While Dagan and Pietros had grown up in the followers’ camp like Nasir, Barca had been captured in Hispania, outside the ruins of New Carthage. Legend had it he fought for his freedom by having to kill his own father for a place in the army. They’d all been taken under the wing of Oenomaus, a Numidian, and trained to be the best at their tasks. No one cared for the weapons quite like Pietros; none wielded the spear like Barca; only the gods were equal to Dagan with a bow; only Nasir was able to control the horses and train new riders. 

They were all part of his family out here, wherever the army took them. They faced a long, and dangerous, fight. Pompey had achieved rapid success, but Sertorius was an experienced general entrenched in a land loyal to him. They had weeks, if not months, of training in front of them, and rest would not come easily with the noise from their newly acquired prisoners.

“Has anyone tried to quiet them?” Nasir asked, cocking his head towards the captives.

“Those fresh bruises weren’t put there just by the Gauls,” Barca said, his face blank as he regarded them. “Some wild beasts can’t, or shouldn’t, be tamed.”

Nasir turned to him and wondered at what was left unsaid. “What would you do then?” he quietly asked, knowing such a matter could upset Pietros. For a man raised among soldiers, he remained stubbornly gentle. To upset Pietros was to upset Barca, and any wise man knew it an act to avoid.

“I would put them down,” Barca said, voice absent any emotion save resolve. “It would be for the best, in the end.”

There was nothing to add to such a declaration, so Nasir kept his own counsel. He never was one to believe in breaking that which was wild. He didn’t even believe in taming so much as showing how cooperation could win comfort, perhaps even freedom. He had never allowed one of his older horses to be slaughtered for meat or sacrifice, no matter how much it would appease a local tribe. From the free lands they came, and there there were allowed to return if they so desired. If not, there were always tasks to be found with the followers’ camp, or farmers eager to buy an older horse at a reduced price. Nasir knew horses were not barbarians, but those same lessons could be used. 

******************

Nasir greeted dawn by way of a messenger. 

“Word from Pompey,” the man said. “He wants the barbarian recruited.”

“Fuck the gods,” Nasir murmured into his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair before blindly grasping for his wine. He took a long gulp before opening his eyes again. “The barbarian is more beast than man,” he informed the messenger.

“That is why Pompey believes you are the best to train him.” There was something smug to the man’s smile. Gnaeus, that was his name. Nasir remembered him now, a Gaul recruited into the forces. A decent fighter by Oenomaus’ words, yet needlessly violent to the point of distraction. He’d been removed from active combat and made a runner. He seemed to revel in the prospect of Nasir’s failure.

“Tell Pompey it shall be done,” he ordered. Nasir waved to the tent entrance with impatience. “You are dismissed.”

Gnaeus’ eyes lingered where they should not, and Nasir made a show of pulling his pack of knives from under his pillow, letting them gleam in the light through the tent flap. It served its purpose as the man left. Nasir would have word with Oenomaus about him at a more reasonable hour. Their leader would be doing his sets of early morning training, an almost spiritual act to witness. Oenomaus moved with the steps of a man possessed by the gods and trained by Mars himself. It was not something to interrupt with small concerns that Nasir could easily handle himself if it out of hand. 

Nasir collected his ration of the first batch of bread before continuing on his daily walk of the camp. He tore off pieces and ate slowly as he formed new tactics in his head. It was the lack of noise that made him pause before approaching the prisoners. He watched Pompey’s newest project from a distance. To the unobservant he would appear at rest, yet Nasir could see where those fingers were clenched. A body given over to exhaustion would not have such a grip. The bowed head, probably the only concession the man had made for the pain in his limbs, helped keep the tired eyes from appearing alert. 

Nasir wrapped the rest of his bread in a scrap of cloth before walking with purpose towards his target. He snatched a carafe of water as well. It would not do for these prisoners to die before they could be of use, and Nasir had a feeling the one on the post had been staunch in his refusal of food and drink. 

He stood over the man, aware that he would be dwarfed by his statue if they were on equal footing. He was curious to see what the first reaction would be. 

Spittle on his boots, apparently. He easily backhanded the captive for his insolence. It brought back a fierce sign of life as his head reared up, eyes promising retaliation. The man bared his teeth at Nasir, reminding him of a horse refusing to be still even when tethered. Nasir would use as firm a hand here as he did when training the horses. He grabbed his chin, fingers tightening on the unfamiliar feel of rough stubble; as he forced the jaw closed to keep from biting.

“You are more than an animal,” he said. “Have you no respect for yourself?”

To say the gaze that answered him was murderous would be an understatement. It almost amused Nasir to see the fire there. He would make a good addition to their regiment, if only they could get him to see reason. 

“You’re of a form.” Nasir said as he openly let his eyes travel over the toned body crumpled beneath him. “Training will still be required. I don’t trust the barbarians taught you to fight to kill with any skill. You need to learn how to do the most damage with the least blows. Barca shall have fun with you.”

The man growled something out, defiant still even in the face of Nasir’s power over him.

“Of what do you fucking speak?” 

Nasir laughed at the command. “You do not give the orders; you take them. I will show you a kindness now no other will. You will become part of this regiment, trained like a Roman, because Pompey demands it. You can do so of your free will and show cooperation now, or you can stay chained, and have it forced upon you.”

Nasir barely blinked at the additional mixture of blood and saliva now on his boots.

“I take that as answer,” he said. He looked to the sun. “I will return at noon to see if you are more of a sound mind.”

He laughed at the curses that followed his departure. Barca peered out of his tent as he walked by, shaking his head at Nasir. 

“You are the maddest fuck in this camp,” he called after him.

“A title well earned,” Nasir shouted back.

 ********************

“Again,” Nasir ordered the troops in front of him. They were trained archers, men who were more than capable of hitting a stationary target, but they were still learning the difference of shooting with the short bow as opposed the long, and of turning their upper bodies towards the target while atop their horse. 

It was not proving to be a successful lesson.

“I see a whole group of candidates ready for latrine trench duty,” Dagan said. He studied the troops with the same unimpressed look Nasir had on his face. “Maybe we should let them kill each other.”

“And risk damage to my horses?” Nasir asked. “Hardly.”

“Rumor claims with Pompey’s new project they will no longer be just _your_ horses. He’s seen fit to bring back the Celt,” Dagan said.

Nasir clenched his jaw at the mention of Gannicus. The man was skilled, but he believed leadership a burden and not a duty. He also consumed more wine on his own in a day than Nasir did in a week. He still managed results, but neither Nasir nor the horses appreciated Gannicus’ impressive collection of ballads. 

“If Pompey believes that is best, then I am happy to obey command,” Nasir said.

“Liar,” Dagan said. He waved to Pietros who was waiting to come forward.

“Halt!” Nasir yelled. He had little desire to deal with Barca’s ire if Pietros should be injured by a fool who did not know how to refrain from killing an ally.

“Your barbarian refuses food and drink,” Pietros said. “With the strain on his body, and possible infection, the medic believes he will not be long for this life.”

Nasir glared at Dagan who looked ready to fall to the ground in laughter. “I will watch the troops,” he offered. “Go train the newest pet to pique Pompey’s interest.”

“You are a horrible man,” Nasir hissed as he passed Dagan. 

Pietros was kind enough to hold his tongue as he followed Nasir back to the main camp, only offering insight into _how_ they found themselves in this mess. The fool of a man had raged himself into sleep by the time Nasir returned to where the prisoners were held. It took three of them to carry him into the tent, all while the other captives screamed one word over and over. 

_Agron_.

“Do you know its meaning?” he asked Lydon, a well-traveled runner of the regiments.

Lydon shook his head. “It is not a curse or a cry I have heard from their like. I believe it to be his name.”

“Agron,” Nasir said, trying it out on his tongue. “I have heard worse.” He leaned over the unconscious man and slapped his face. He almost got his finger bitten off for the trouble.

“He’s pleasant,” Lydon said.

“Quite,” Nasir agreed. “Only a fool would refuse sustenance this close to death. Would you not rather die in glory than in chains? Is this the way you would have your gods welcome you into the Afterlife, Agron?”

“Fuck your gods,” Agron rasped out. There was doubt clear in his watery eyes, as if he wondered what he had spoken before the darkness came. It was confirmation that the word was his name, or title at the very least. 

“Your fellow captives are not a silent group,” Lydon said. He passed a cup of water to Nasir. “May fortune favor you,” he intoned before leaving the tent.

“No,” Agron insisted. 

Nasir looked at the man, body too weak to even turn from Nasir, and shook his head. He continued, undeterred, and forced the water to Agron’s lips. “Drink or die.”

Agron grunted in response and tried to turn away again. The chains rattled from their place hooked around a beam of the tent as he tried to raise his arms, but his body was finally giving into the fatigue of his captivity. 

“If you wish to see your homeland again Agron, you must drink,” Nasir said. He watched as something shifted in Agron’s eyes. Nasir wasn’t fool enough to believe it gratitude; he knew it nothing but temporary resignation due to a body’s needs. 

Chapped lips wrapped around the clay brim of the cup and took the water with slow, deliberate sips. Agron had knowledge enough not to gulp the water and make himself sick. It spoke to lessons learned or perhaps pervious captivity. Nasir would ask Pietros to bring them a broth, since he doubted Agron could handle bread in his current state. He took the cup away once Agron was done and took a seat on the stool beside him.

“My commander seeks to have you as part of his service,” Nasir said. “He is not a man to be disobeyed, nor one to make an enemy. If you give us service, you shall have freedom. If not, you will either die here, another captive with no one to mourn you, or you will be sold to the highest bidder. Considering your grasp of our tongue, that option could go either way for your fortune. Or perhaps the Gauls will take you back, and hold you for ransom. You must be of some import to know our tongue and to be so easily accepted as a leader among those captured.” Nasir let his eyes roam over the old injuries clear under the blood and dirt. “There should be more wounds on you for a man so respected and so young. Your beard is not long, and I know that to be a sign of respect among the chieftains of your kind.” Nasir tilted his head and thought. “What could make a man like you so easily give into his initial captors? Protection, of course. Was it a wife? A child? Both?”

Agron closed his eyes, the only way to escape what was before him. 

Nasir sighed. “Agron, nothing here shall be easy for you. You must ask yourself, honestly, aside from fury, what would remaining a prisoner see to your own gain? Romans were not the ones who captured you. We may be aligned with the Gauls, but this time, you are not part of our goal. You are far from home, closer to the coast than I think a man like you has ever been. Take some rest and contemplate your choices. If you choose to cooperate, I will see your wounds tended and if some other comforts can be given to your follow captives. You can be their hope, if you wish. If not, then I shall return you to the post, and report to Pompey that the Gauls can have you and do as they see fit. It is not much of a choice, but it is still one that few others would ever offer you.”

Nasir stood and was almost out of the tent when Agron spoke. “It was a brother.”

Nasir did not allow himself to grin in triumph as he met Agron’s clear eyes. He gave a brief nod before resuming his path. “I shall send Pompey word of your compliance.”

******************

Agron had just as foul a mouth in training as he did in chains. It was enough to impress Dagan who had an almost poetic ability to curse in five different tongues. Pietros had forbid Barca from repeating any of them in his presence, since he didn’t like to contemplate just how a boar and a goat could do what Agron implied. 

Agron had found rebellion in the smallest of acts. Nasir did not know if it was to keep his pride or allow himself the comfort of the familiar, but he refused to let the matted pieces of his hair be shorn. He openly spoke to the other prisoners in their own tongue, and whenever a Gaul came anywhere near the camp he had to be restrained. Still, he had stopped spitting on Nasir’s boots and even apologetically dusted off the dirt when he tripped him once.

Training the man had proved to be a task worthy of Hercules. The spear did not suit him; Agron was nimble but not overly agile. He had loudly protested how archery was the sport of women and petty hunters. Nasir had only smiled for a day or so after Dagan had nearly choked Agron with a bow. Nasir outright _refused_ to let a man that ill-tempered near his horses. So it was to Oenomaus that they finally brought him. Agron had grown silent with a sword returned to his hand, even if its blade was blunted. 

“You would put weapon into hands of enemy?” Agron asked. 

Oenomaus remained still as he studied the man. “I think you an honorable man not given to treachery. You may have adopted the manner of a true barbarian for show, but I know what it is to truly be nothing but a demon spit out of the Underworld. The words that fall from your tongue are nothing more than blustering wind. I judge a man by his actions.”

“I could easily stab you in the back,” Agron said.

Oenomaus smirked. “You could try, but it would not be such an easy task, least of all because you never would make attempt. Such an act is beneath you; you know it to be a desperate move reserved only for cowards.” He gestured Hamilcar to come forward. “Now, begin!” 

******************

_Oenomaus is as impressed as he could ever be with Agron’s progress. He has some skill with the blade, though he still has much to learn. Oenomaus has correctly changed his sword grip and the results speak for themselves._. 

Nasir put aside his stylus and dusted sand over his letter to hold the ink in place. He would finish it in the morning, when he would be more adept at spinning lies about how many of the recruits had been bucked off their horses during a training test. 

“You should eat,” Agron said.

Nasir grabbed for his sword on reflex as he turned to face Agron. He took a deep, steadying breath as he regained himself. “I did not hear you enter.”

Agron looked to the bowl of porridge in his hands. “Oenomaus has taught me to guard my steps. I find it a useful skill, unlike the others enforced upon me.”

“Well, at least you’ve found something of worth here,” Nasir said. He took the bowl from Agron and gestured for him to sit. “Gratitude for this, I have neglected my reports for too long and they’ve piled up on me.”

Agron frowned at the stack of tablets, scrolls, and maps on Nasir’s desk. “Should that not be Oenomaus’ task?”

“He has his own,” Nasir said. He ate for a few minutes before he explained. “The cavalry is a very important aspect of Rome’s military, one that is completely underdeveloped. Oenomaus would not know what to look for in the recruits, or the best paths to get war horses to a battle without killing them. They’re magnificent creatures, but so delicate in their own ways.”

“Yet you know them,” Agron said. It was the first time he’d taken a true interest in something other than his own progress. 

“They are all I know. Rome, the horses, and the military.”

“Yet you are not Roman,” Agron said. “None of you are here. That’s what Pietros said.”

Nasir didn’t deny it. “We are contracted to be here, to work, to earn coin and keep us from worse fates. I was born Syrian, but Rome is my home.”

“The camp is your home,” Agron disagreed. “This is not the land of your family, or your gods. You do not have roots and ties to this ground or its waters. How can you claim it a home?”

Nasir scoffed. “You think to know my mind? It might be different from how you’ve lived, but this my life and I find myself proud of it.”

Agron looked unconvinced. “I would trade all the glory Rome has to offer for my thatched home near my brother and his wife. She thought herself to be with child before I left, early yet, so she did not tell Duro.”

Nasir watched Agron’s face, saw the slight shift of his eyes, and the envy hidden there. “You covet your brother’s wife?”

“No,” Agron said. He laugh was a loud, pleasant sound as he shook his head. “Diona lacks that which I crave. I envy that I will never see their babe born, or the continuation of my parents’ line.”

“Diona?” Nasir asked. “She sounds like a Greek.”

“She was of Rome for a time,” Agron said. 

That was certainly a revelation. He could see no freewoman of Rome traveling to the lands east of the Rhine. An escaped slave perhaps, who had got impressively far from Rome’s reach. “And she taught you of Rome?” he asked.

Agron nodded. “She expanded on that which we knew. She is beloved to me now, as strong a sister as any birthed from my parents.”

“You will one day return to them,” Nasir vowed. He put aside his bowl and took Agron’s hands in his own. “Now let us see to those welts and cuts. You keep trying to hide them, which means you either ran out of the salve I acquired for you, or traded it for something of more worth.”

Agron did not meet Nasir’s eyes as he confessed. “Some of your recruits complained of sores, and were willing to part with bread and drink for it. There are youths among the captured, and they deserve more than the pittance of what they’re served. My wounds are of little bother.”

Nasir ran his thumbs over Agron’s knuckles, studying the healing scabs there. “If you are not the son of a chieftain, then perhaps that of an important man. You remain devoted to them, and they to you, even still.”

“They are my people,” Agron said, “and I will not abandon them.”

“And when the Gauls take back their prisoners?” Nasir asked. 

Agron’s face went completely blank. It was obvious a plan was afoot. 

“Just don’t get yourself killed, or recaptured,” Nasir said. He stood and pulled on his cloak. “You may stay here if you wish, but I have things to attend.”

“You are angry with me,” Agron said. 

“Disappointed is more the truth,” Nasir said. “Yet I can’t help but admire your loyalty. Sleep well, Agron.”

Nasir left his tent and the main camp for the followers’ camp. It was almost double the size of where the troops stayed, and the place of much business. Nasir nodded to those he recognized before he arrived at his destination.

“Impressive for a legion that doesn’t exist,” Chadara said as she winked at a passing group of new recruits. She pushed aside the flap of her tent and beckoned Nasir inside. He slipped the coins in her hands as they ignored some of the knowing laughs from the others. 

Chadara had grown up with Nasir, following in the path of her mother the way Nasir had his father. She was one of the few he trusted to acquire certain herbs that shouldn’t be found on any Roman soldier. In turn, Nasir appeared at her tent at least once a fortnight, using his reputation among the troops to provide an unspoken protection. She was one of the few true friends he had, where pretense could fall. Chadara allowed him privacy to be uncertain about his choices in life. He, in turn, allowed her a moment to rest, to put aside the need to play the part of coy woman, forever tempting the soldiers to her tent. 

Nasir unfastened his cloak with Chadara’s help before collapsing on the cot that made up her bed. Some of the richest fabrics from Rome surrounded him, perfumed with scents from far to the east. Nasir doubted even Pompey slept with such comforts. Chadara had many admirers who paid her well, though she still looked for something more with each new wave of recruits and freshly appointed officers. 

He watched through half-lidded eyes as she slipped something into the side of his boot. He smiled at her skill. “You were able to purchase more of the salve?”

She smirked at him. “Never doubt my skills to acquire what is needed.” She slipped into the bed beside him and started to untangle the braids in his hair. “Dagan worries about your apparent affection for this barbarian.”

Nasir laughed. “I always knew you had a taste for us Syrians.”

“Or you Syrians have a taste for _me_ ,” Chadara claimed. She kissed the top of his head as she worked. “I do not want you to lose your heart for the wrong reasons.”

“My heart belongs only to my duty and my horses,” Nasir promised. “I just respect a spirit that still fights against its captivity, even now.”

“You always have loved the untamed ones,” Chadara teased. Nasir tilted his chin up to meet the soft expression in her eyes. She tapped the tip of his nose. “Easy to get a heart stolen that way.”

“Agron’s only concern is for his people. Even now he still watches over them. He dreams of nothing but freedom.”

“You were the first to show him kindness,” Chadara said. “Will the lion not always remember the mouse that removed the thorn from his paw?” She pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, tasting of honey wine and sugar. “Dagan says his eyes often linger on you, following your path always.”

“Dagan spends too much time gossiping,” Nasir muttered.

“Oh,” Chadara laughed, “soldiers have always been the minions of Rumor and shall remain so unto the end of our times. Even you have found cause to participate in idle gossip. Not as much anymore with _Agron_ occupying your days. And nights soon, I suppose.” 

In the morning he returned to his tent to find Agron sorting through the documents on his desk, clearly able to read what was written there.

“You are a curious man,” Nasir said. “I’ve never met one so far removed from Rome both able to speak our tongue and read our letters. The Gauls really did give us a prince to hold for ransom.”

Agron did not look amused as he glanced up from one of the maps. Nasir held little concern for him piecing together an escape route from it. 

Agron would have to learn to ride a horse first. 

“You smell of whores,” Agron said.

“One whore,” Nasir corrected. “And she is a dear friend. Men pay until their purses are empty for the glory of her company. I only pay for her adept skills men and women full of lust never expect.” He liberated the jar of salve from his boot and set it down next to Agron’s forearm. “I would appreciate it if you kept that one to yourself. My recruits need to learn that the medic will not waste his goods on wounds that all riders must endure.”

“Am I not one of those same recruits?” Agron asked.

“You are of a different sort,” Nasir admitted. 

“Why?” Agron asked. It was a question that came up often between them, and one Nasir often lacked for proper answer. 

“Because you seek the protection of those you’ve sworn yourself to over greater glories. That is a rare thing, even among this regiment,” Nasir said. “You’re a better man than you appear.”

“I am not,” Agron argued. “You think too much of a man who will easily betray you.”

Nasir studied the tight clench of Agron’s jaw, his hands balled into fist with his knuckles gone white , and the pinched look on his face. “I think when that time comes, said man will only do so because the cause is just.”

*********************

Four months of training Agron to become something more than just a foul-mouthed prisoner had proved profitable. He had finally conceded to a haircut when Pietros made mention of lice, though he still kept his patchy beard and fierce temper. He had advanced quickly with the sword, to the point where Oenomaus had made noises about him training new recruits after the winter’s thaw. 

There had been other things that had changed as well. After a brawl broke out between Agron and a handful of Gauls, it was decided Nasir’s tent could do with another occupant. What had first started out as inconvenience, turned to friendship, and then to something far more fragile and precious that still made Nasir’s breath catch, even after two solid months of receiving Agron’s affections. It was not the first time Nasir had lain with a man, it was common practice between mentor and student. Now though, Nasir had never felt more desire than duty when in Agron’s hands. 

A change occurred in Agron once there had been a change between them. He would always be quick of temper, foul of mouth, and eager to fight, but he’d stopped seeing his whole time among them as a punishment. Nights were filled with whispered confession of a life beyond the boundaries of Rome, and soft inquires of Nasir’s time before they met. Mornings were met with teasing kisses and soft murmurs, a warmth that reached deep into their bones and stayed with them. It was far more pleasing than long days full of arguments and curses.

“You can break the most wild of them,” Oenomaus had proclaimed with a proud smile when he saw Agron in full Roman armor for the first time. “Your words get through that thick skull, and I don’t need more of our recruits falling to temptation and trying to teach him with their fists. Your patience shows itself well, though I thought you held it for none but the beasts.”

“Of which Agron is clearly kin,” Nasir had amusedly agreed. 

Nasir had always loved the wild things; his horses, the storms, the flickering flames, and he loved this, here, with Agron’s breath harsh over his lips. The soft feel of his hair under Nasir’s fingers as he dug in and held on for each thrust of Agron’s hips. He reveled in the stinging bites of Agron’s teeth, the tug of his skin between those lips and jaws, marks hidden but still felt under the leather and metal of his armor. 

“Nasir,” Agron breathed into his ear, name rolling off his tongue in a way only he spoke. He said it liked a benediction and a curse, torn from somewhere deep inside. He said his name in a way that implied everything neither could dare to speak. Nasir always answered in kind, breath caught in his throat and a long, low, slow moan of _Agron_. 

There were words Agron mumbled into Nasir’s skin every time, spoken in that tongue Nasir had never heard before meeting the prisoners. It had become a familiar, soothing sound to him, used only by Agron now when he was this unguarded or when he was too angry to stop himself. He reveled in this feeling, of witnessing Agron without control. It was beautiful in the way only the most dangerous of things ever could be. 

Strong hands gripped Nasir’s hips, holding him tight, holding him down, in a way he’d never permitted another man. The hands then moved to his face, cradling his cheek as if he was more precious than salt. Chadara’s warnings sometimes came back to haunt him in moments like this, but then he hitched his legs up, dug his heels into the small of Agron’s broad back, and cared little for the consequences. He’d spent his whole life being the model of decorum for this hidden regiment. He was allowed to have this, the solace found in a man who didn’t judge him for what he wasn’t, but rather wanted him for _who_ he was. 

Agron stopped then, fingers brushing down Nasir’s face to his throat. There was a darkness lingering in those light eyes, and Nasir had to stop himself from asking if something was wrong. Agron shook his head before lowering his face to Nasir’s again, voice teasing as he whispered an unknown phrase into Nasir’s mouth. 

Nasir tried to puzzle out the sounds, but they were soon muffled and he found himself taken with more important matters. He cried out as Agron pushed in hard, the force almost enough to rock them off their bed. The sweat on his skin made it impossible for Nasir to hold on lightly, so he dug his nails in deep, grinning with pride at the pained sound Agron made, even with the rough pants of his breath stirring on Nasir’s skin. 

Nasir was starting to understand what it meant to be ruined for all other men. 

He woke to an empty bed. The tent looked undisturbed, but there were important things missing, such as Agron’s sword and Nasir’s cloak. When he wandered out into the camp, cursing all the gods in all the pantheons and tongues he knew, he wasn’t surprised to see the prisoners gone and Agron’s absence a heavy thing. Nox, his beloved horse, was missing too. 

The first to make the Trojan Horse insult to Nasir would lose their head.

He woke Lydon to send message to Pompey, then found Oenomaus to inform him of his failure. Both looked at him in pity, but neither gave him insult or blame. Nasir did not seem himself free from fault, even it was true that he did not open their wooden gates or hand over the keys to the prisoners’ chains. That was a task headed by Acer, a Gaul that had always held grudge against Agron. If they ever found the man again, Nasir knew it would only be his corpse. 

Nox would’ve been the only horse the stable hands would’ve given to Agron without question or suspicion. It was not uncommon for Agron to collect him for Nasir, and now that one act that had made his stomach warm with something like love, felt heavy and bitter as stone.

Pietros was the first to dare seek him out, and the only one Nasir would’ve accepted without a fight besides. Pietros was one of the best trackers among them, so it was little surprise that he found Nasir on the hilltop. It’s not that he didn’t want to be found, he just needed to be left alone. 

“He was saying his farewells last night,” Nasir said to Pietros, though he addressed the trees in front of them. “I understand that now.”

“He did it to protect you,” Pietros said. His long fingers gripped Nasir’s shoulder. “He made a choice you couldn’t; one he would never ask of you. Winter will soon be upon us, if not open war, and he had to return before the mountain paths became impossible to navigate. He left because you couldn’t.”

Nasir laughed with an amusement he did not feel. “Did Barca not try the same with you?”

Pietros sat down beside Nasir on the ground, knocking their knees close together like they were gangly boys again, chasing after Oenomaus for any scrap of attention. Those were good memories; Pietros, recently brought up from Alexandria, and Nasir, finally meeting someone his own age, on the cusp of turning from boy to man. The world had changed when Barca arrived three years later.

Pietros wrapped his arm around Nasir’s shoulder. He was the very definition of rational compassion as he explained. “Barca stayed for me because had had no home. It was either become part of the legion that doesn’t exist, or sell himself as a gladiator or to the fighting pits in Capua. Agron has a family waiting for him. And more than a homeland, or hatred for Rome, that tie can never be severed. He could never stay here, not when he knew they still lived.”

“I know,” Nasir said. He never imagined that Agron would stay, not if the chance to escape presented itself. Nasir had known it was coming. He had turned a blind eye to the gathering of knives, small coins, and trinkets he’d found hidden inside old rags used to rub down the horses. He hadn’t bothered to stop the inevitable, but it still hurt that he wasn’t trusted enough for even a confession of intent.

“He never even asked,” Nasir said. 

“As if you could ever leave your horses or your home,” Pietros said. “He knew what it was like to be torn from his own life. He could never ask the same of you.”

Nasir’s life existed in contracts and the tenuous hold of being a successful commander’s favorite. That fortune could easily change, and probably would now. He never had lived for his own purpose, even if he tried to find his own way within the confines of the military. He’d known nothing but life in the camp. There had never been a need to search for more, until Agron had spoken in the quiet moments of their nights of his homeland, his family, and his gods. 

“Maybe he should have tried,” Nasir whispered to the winds. 

*********************

There were consequences for any failure in the Roman army, even among the regiment that did not exist. Nasir had expected the worst due to his crimes, from exposing weak points in the security of their camp, to letting prisoners escape, but he’d received nothing save a harsh reprimand from Pompey himself. 

The prisoners were not their own, he had explained, and the Gauls had failed to provide resources for their keep besides. It actually benefitted the toll on their supplies to have them gone, a whole group of men, women, and children they had to keep alive, yet could not sell unless an end was brought to the long negotiations with the Gauls. They would now never be compensated for the food, clothing, medicine, and shelter provided, but Pompey claimed they’d expected as much. The Gauls who had brought them were not the savviest of warriors, and possibly only caught such a group by chance rather than skill. 

Nasir concurred with that theory. Agron never spoke much of the day that saw him captured, but each time it was clear that he only _allowed_ himself to be taken for the safety of Diona and his brother’s child. 

A deeper mystery was why Oenomaus, a man built on truth and honor, helped to perpetuate the lie of Acer, the prisoners’ guard, being bought off for the promise of coin. It was easy to pin crimes on the dead, on a man without any allies in the camp, yet it was not a course of action taken by leaders like Oenomaus. 

“I would not have false words spoken from your tongue,” Nasir said after he returned from his meeting with their commander.

“They are not false,” Oenomaus said. He welcomed Nasir inside his tent, where Gannicus, Nasir’s new co-trainer, was already passed out from too much wine. “You did not give Agron leave to escape, nor did you help him free the prisoners. Acer lowered his guard and earned his punishment. Agron seized an opportunity, proving the skill Pompey expected of him.”

“He saw maps in _my_ tent, he rode off on _my_ horse, with skills taught by _my_ hand. I am not faultless in this, Oenomaus,” he insisted. 

“He _is_ at fault for ruining my dreams,” Gannicus grumbled. He raised his head from the table, hair mussed, and chalk dust covering a cheek, and glared at Nasir. “Two years, Syrian, and you still find a way to be a sore in my most delicate spots. You fucked a prisoner; it happens to the best of us, unless they are Oenomaus and prefer their gods to the needs of a body. There will be others down the road to sate your desires.”

“Perhaps he has found there are no others for him,” Oenomaus admonished in a tone that revealed some secret.

Gannicus’ face softened and he nodded slowly. “Then you are truly faultless, Nasir. You are an honorable man, and we all find our walls tumbling when it is someone who is more than just a warm hole.”

Oenomaus and Nasir both grimaced at the words, but Gannicus’ sincerity wasn’t in doubt. Nasir would not shrug off the weight of his own guilt anytime soon. It would be easier to know that those he held closest did not harbor ill feelings or distrust towards him. He would find a way to repay them for such devotion, and Pompey for all he had offered Nasir. 

There would be a way to make this right again. 

**********************

Ambition and expansion were two driving forces behind Rome and its armies. Nasir had grown up awed by its power. There were lands that remained unconquered, though there were generals who tried. The lands east of the Rhine, past the territory of the Gauls, where Agron came from, were of latest interest to Pompey. He had not made his plans known to many, just a handful of scouts and soldiers he trusted. To go into Germania, speaking Latin, was a mission of danger and almost certain death. Nasir could not allow any other to volunteer for it. He’d gladly taken the task, riding out with Bellona, his second favorite mare, and a pack full of supplies. 

He had not been overly prepared for the strong current of the Rhine, or the early onset of winter. They had made it over a rickety bridge, covered in ice, only to have the snapping of a tree limb spook Bellona and see Nasir pitched onto a set of jagged rocks. 

He had laughed as the cold seeped into his bones, and his blood trickled out. He had once taunted Agron with dying nameless, forgotten in a land foreign to him. How the Gods did love to punish hubris. Now Nasir fulfilled his own prophecy. 

Bellona nudged at his forehead, blowing warm air over his face from her snout. He reached up a hand to calm her, and grimaced as the blood on his hands stained her wheat-colored coat. “You should run,” he said. “Find a family to feed you.”

She nipped at his fingers before lowering herself to the ground. It was a testament to their mutual loyalty that she stayed with him as he began the journey to the next life. He leaned into her warmth as his eyes drifted close. 

Nasir woke to a fire in his veins. His whole body felt heavy, hot, and slow. He could feel the sweat stuck to his skin as he tried to keep his eyes open. There was nothing but darkness around him and an off-smell to the air. The left side of his abdomen felt numb and Nasir knew then he must be in the last throes before death. He could no longer feel Bellona beside him. He used what energy he had to turn his head and take in his surroundings, hoping to catch the specters of friends long gone to the next life. 

A familiar pair of eyes met his own and Nasir let himself relax. He could take death if such a sight guided him.

“The gods are kind to send me a vision of you at the end of this life,” Nasir rasped. 

Those eyes grew sad as a large hand cupped his cheek. Beloved lips formed words Nasir remembered from a warm tent and a lifetime away. He understood them better now, could make them out even with the roaring in his ears. 

_Ich flehe dich an_. 

Nasir still didn’t know what they meant, what they asked, but he had repeated them often in the months between Agron’s departure and the reconnaissance mission that had brought him to the borders of the Rhine. He tried to grasp Agron’s hand, knowing it was foolish to attempt to hold onto a ghost, but his fingers would not obey his commands. He was so very tired besides. 

He hoped Dagan and Gannicus would drink a city’s worth of wine in his memory. 

“Nasir!” Agron’s voice commanded. 

Nasir tried to focus, to soothe the spirit of the only man he had loved, but he was weary. Should he not be allowed rest? Had he not done enough to see peace? He did not expect Elysium, but nor did he deserve Tartarus. Was that the curse for not following where a heart willed? To spend eternity hearing that voice call him in desperation and despair? 

He let the darkness take him.

*********************

“Roman, I need you to live for my brother’s sake,” an accented voice informed him. “I will stand with him through anything, but I refuse to march to the gates of your Underworld for a boy who doesn’t even know my name.”

“Don’t call him a boy,” Agron ordered. “He has seen more war than the both of us.”

“And yet I do not feel it right to use his name before he introduces himself,” the stranger said. His very words sounded a tease, and Nasir knew it could only be one person; the ever lauded _Duro_. 

“It looks as if he will speak with you soon enough,” a third voice said. This one belonged to a woman and she spoke his tongue as well as any Roman. She lacked the same accent the brother’s carried, more like Auctus, a Grecian lilt to her words. Duro’s wife, perhaps; the escaped slave who had taught Agron of Rome. Diona, his memory supplied. 

Nasir felt his nose wrinkle as he smelled stale blood and the stench of healing salves. This could not be any part of the Underworld. He doubted even Dis Pater would allow such a thing. Nasir took a deep, shaky breath and immediately regretted it. 

“Stubborn,” Diona said. “I can see why you latched onto him, Agron. He fits right into this clan.”

Nasir turned his head and studied the three people watching him with a mixture of emotion wrought across their faces. Duro was smiling, his whole body lit up, and Nasir immediately felt his lips quirk in return. He had a head full of dark curls and rings through his nose and ear. He gave a little wave of his hand and Nasir tried not to laugh in response. Diona was beautiful, face open and kind, as she nodded at him in encouragement. Her belly was round with child, and she was the first to move, coming to him with a clay cup of what smelled like honey wine. Her long, dark hair was soft where it brushed against his arms as she helped him drink.

Agron remained frozen in place, even as Diona and Duro helped Nasir sit. His hair was still short, cut close to his scalp. His face was still dark with the scruff of a beard, patchy as Nasir remembered. There were new scars on the skin Nasir could see, and he would find out the cause before night’s end. He remained silent though and Nasir knew, once again, he would have to be the one to break words. 

“You seemed to have misplaced your goodbyes,” Nasir said.

Agron laughed then, the sound almost forced out of him. “And you let a horse lead you astray.”

“Not just a horse,” Nasir confessed. 

A grin slowly overtook Agron’s face and he finally shuffled forward. Tentative hands skirted over Nasir’s skin, ever careful to avoid his wound. Later Nasir would have his answers about what happened, how he came here, what happened to Nox and Bellona, but there were more important matters at hand. 

“Let us leave them,” Diona said. She softly tugged on Duro’s arm though he refused to budge. “ _Duro_ ,” she hissed to no effect as he remained firmly rooted in place. 

Nasir paid them little heed as he tilted his chin up in anticipation. Agron was careful as he leaned down, gentle in a way they only were when far removed from everyone else. 

“Welcome home,” he murmured before taking Nasir’s lips.

“Now we can leave,” Duro said. The sound of shuffling feet followed, before a voice yelled back at them. 

“Mind his wound, Agron,” Diona ordered. “Don’t reopen what we’ve worked so hard to close.” 

Nasir pulled back slowly, letting himself breathe in the scent of Agron again. It was different now, filled more with the forest than the sea, but still comforting. “Your brother’s wife, I find her amusing.”

“She’s already adopted you as one of her own,” Agron admitted. He rested his forehead against Nasir’s. “The whole clan has heard my tales of you. We had plans to retrieve you, but Diona found herself with child again before we could leave. We were waiting for the babe to be born before Duro and I planned to snatch you away from the legion.”

“You would try and steal me?” Nasir asked.

“With Oenomaus’ permission,” Agron confessed. “He found me that night, when I had to leave. He let me pass and never pursued. He told me I was only allowed to return once and that I best choose that time wisely. I planned for the spring.”

Nasir nodded to show he understood, even if he still had questions. “I knew you had to return to your family, but you still could have told me.”

“No,” Agron said. He took another deep breath and leaned on Nasir again, almost trying to cover him with his body. “I couldn’t let you see me leave. I _couldn’t_ , Nasir. You were everything to me there. How could you not know? You gave me purpose to live when I had asked for death. You showed compassion to a man who gave you nothing save violence. You cared, not for what I could give you, but for who I was as a man. I couldn’t leave you, if you had known.”

“I did know, though,” Nasir said. “And I still let you go. Perhaps it would’ve been different if I tried to stop you, yet I didn’t even when I suspected your plans.” He dug his fingers into Agron’s arms, holding him in place, anchoring him to this time and not old memories. “I suppose we have to thank Pompey for letting us meet again. He was the one who demanded a survey of your boundaries.”

“All they’ll find is a tattered cloak and a broken helmet, if they search for you. We deposited them at the other side of the bank, so it shall look as if the river took you,” Agron said. “Our greatest safety is in keeping our home hidden.”

“Nox?” Nasir asked. 

Agron grinned. “Lugo is watching her and your newest mount as well. She would not leave your side until Lugo coaxed her with food. He’s good with the horses. When you’re healed, I’ll show you our stables.”

“I thought you knew nothing of horses,” Nasir teased. 

Agron nuzzled the side of his face. “Not until some misplaced Syrian introduced me to the terrifying beasts.” He looked down, what could have been a blush staining his cheeks. “Nox has become a comfort.”

The sound of childish laughter echoed through the walls of the home, even as Nasir shivered in Agron’s hold. He was unused to wooden houses and thatched roofs. He could become used to it though, if a body as warm and loving as Agron’s remained at his side. 

“I think I shall quite like your home,” he said.

“I shall quite like you in it,” Agron agreed. 

Nasir would miss his horses and his camp. He would never see Pietros, Barca, and Dagan grow old. He would never again have Oenomaus’ soothing voice to guide him through his days. He would never get over the loss of Chadara, but when Nasir took this mission, he never expected to return. He had wanted death, and had indeed almost gained it. 

“I do not know how to be that which I am not,” Nasir confessed, “but you are my heart, and more important to me than position held in the past.”

Nasir would always remember that look in Agron’s eyes. And the loud cluck of braying and squawking animals when Agron made a whoop of pure joy in response to Nasir’s words. There were struggles to come. Nasir knew not a word of Agron’s tongue, and knew even less of a farmer’s trade. He did not fear this future though, eager as ever to discover the path before him now. 

He always did love the wild things.


End file.
